


Five Times Baz Holds It Together and One Time He Doesn’t

by thefierydagger



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7082536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefierydagger/pseuds/thefierydagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz doesn't want to be a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Baz Holds It Together and One Time He Doesn’t

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snowflakeoneil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflakeoneil/gifts).



> This was originally posted on tumblr for the Carry On Secret Santa. Some parts are cringey af, but *shrugs*

Baz is hyperventilating. He’s gasping and shaking, taking in fits of the cold, harsh winter air. His whole body is shaking, not from the cold, because he can never feel cold, but from the years of seeing the same sickeningly white face, the same teeth elongating into a weapon of murder, the same lifeless, disgusting rat corpses staining his vision.

He deserves to die; but the thing is, _he’s already dead._

So he draws himself up and sends the rat corpses flying out of sight, just in time to greet Simon Snow’s footsteps with a condescending grin.

He doesn’t worry if his teeth are bared.

–

Baz can’t get it out of his head. The image of his father’s silent, disapproving frown when he mentioned his mother, like it’s his fault she died, like he doesn’t have any right to grieve over the woman who gave her last breath beside his crib. It’s overwhelming; the hard, insistent line of his mouth whenever they cross gazes that speaks of unbreachable walls and uncrossable distance.

It’s overwhelming because for the most part, his father is right. Right about Baz being a monster. He should kill himself, light up a flare and swallow the sparks, crumble into black. Do what his mother would want of him. Spare everyone the trouble.

He should, but he doesn’t want to. Baz wants to live. He wants to stay for the nigh impossible, inescapably improbable chance of becoming accepted for being a– being a vampire. He wants to be able to return from the Catacombs and not feel Simon Snow’s accusing glare like a harsh reminder of his status, his place, his fate.

_You’re a monster, you’re a monster, you’re a monster._

Baz is a monster.

“Baz?” someone calls to him, tone wary and untrusting. It shakes Baz out of his reverie, his face automatically schooling into a cold, indifferent half-smirk.

Only one person has the courage, ability and wretched stubbornness to follow him to the ramparts at midnight. _To check if he’s plotting._

“Here to enjoy my company, Snow?” His voice is as sharp as a dagger, wildly different from the internal chaos of his thoughts. Sometimes his ability to put on a mask so quickly and successfully scares himself, but then acting, along with wit, has always been his greatest weapon.

Apathy doesn’t work, but the aim is to fool others, not to fool himself. Even if it means to destroy himself from within, Baz will mock and mock and mock.

See, the thing with masks is, they’re brittle, they break easily, but they’re also replaceable, and no one will dare to touch such an ugly thing anyway.

Better to be an asshole than a pathetic mess.

–

Golden curls. Baz sees those tufts of golden curls shining bright in the sunlight everyday, and he sees them tumbling over on a pillow every night, and now he sees them reflecting the orange glow of the torches. The hazy blur of drunkenness only serves to make him brighter.

“You found me.” They’re in the Catacombs, in the Children’s Tomb. Baz is slumped against a wall of skulls, hands resting lightly against the soot-covered floor, a weak attempt to prop himself up into a respectable position.

But he’s too tired of everything. That’s why he let Simon Snow catch up to him. That bloody tosser already has his sword in hand, like he’s expecting an ambush. The bronze glint of the blade matches his hair.

“I knew I would.” He’s a statue of justice, bathed in gold and born of holy righteousness. The Mage’s Heir. He’s the fire that fuels Baz and the fire that will consume him.

Baz supposes when the time comes to fight Simon Snow, he’ll just die.

“What now?” His hands are itching; for what, he doesn’t know– and doesn’t want to know. Instead of reaching up to pull at his hair, Baz dusts his pants off and leans back further. He can feel the skulls digging into his back.

“Now you tell me what you’re up to.”

A manic laugh bubbles it’s way up his throat. It rings lackadaisical and more than a bit hollow. No one can ever be as single-minded as Simon fucking Snow.

It makes Baz want to kiss him and cry and bite him and maybe pull on his hair a little bit. His mind is a perpetual train of self-destruction going _DIE DIE KISS DIE BITE KISS._

But Baz somehow holds a conversation– with the ubiquitous undercurrent of hostility and one-sided pining– and he’s singing now.

_“Ring around the rosie / A pocket full of posies  
Ashes, ashes…”_

Simon Snow, the fucking idiot he is, swings his sword around and knocks a few skulls over.

_We all fall down._

“ **As you were**!” The spell drains everything out of him. Baz just wants to close his eyes and cry, but he probably doesn’t have the energy for that. His mouth is on autopilot and he means every word that spills out of it, and at one point, he takes a swig from the bottle. Shit, he’s slipping.

Simon Snow continues to be suspicious, and Baz continues to tease, and he closes his eyes finally, and he thinks, I’m going to cry. He’s going to see me cry.

Baz holds on to the last remnants of his heavy mask, and then Simon Snow, in all his avenging glory, starts to leave.

“If I’d known it was this easy to get rid of you, I would’ve let you catch up with me weeks ago!” The sentence comes out spiteful, when it’s a desperate attempt to rile Simon Snow up, to have him come back and splutter for another comeback.

But Simon Snow doesn’t come back; his footsteps gradually become fainter and fainter until it’s all suffocating silence again and Baz wants.

So his mouth opens again, words pour out again, except this time it’s melodic; it’s a nursery rhyme, beautiful, cheerful; everything the lyrics aren’t, everything he’s not.

_“Ring around the rosie / A pocket full of posies  
Ashes, ashes– we all fall down”_

Baz’s eyes aren’t wet; they’re wide open.

_“Ring around the rosie / A pocket full of posies  
Ashes, ashes– we all fall down”_

He’s not slouching anymore; his back is ramrod straight.

_“Ring around the rosie / A pocket full of posies  
Ashes, ashes– we all fall down”_

His mind isn’t chaotic; he’s never felt so clear-minded before.

_“Ring around the rosie / A pocket full of posies  
**Ashes, ashes– we all fall down** ”_

–

A stab of guilt almost forces Baz onto his knees. The girl– he can’t identify her, not when his world’s a mess– is stumbling all over, gibberish words being ripped from her mouth. He presses the button on the old recorder to turn it off, but she keeps staggering, the words keep coming, and he fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up.

Simon Snow is staring at him like he’s killed a person. He possibly has. But Baz was supposed to kill him, not some random, meddling girl, and it’s all his fault.

Withholding the tears prickling his eyes, Baz stays frozen on his spot, his hand hovering over the recorder in his pocket. The urge to scream is overwhelming. He knows if he does, it’ll never end, he’ll forever be shrieking. Just like the girl.

She stops. The girl closes her mouth, panicked tears streaking down her cheeks, and opens it again. Nothing comes out. She lets out a ragged growl; it sends her into a coughing fit.

Baz knows she’ll never be able to talk again. Never be able to do magic. He doesn’t do anything.

And Simon Snow is still staring at him.

–

They’re arguing, and Baz is breaking, but his facade isn’t.

–

Baz didn’t have a trigger. He wasn’t arguing with anyone, wasn’t doing anything nefarious. He was just returning from the Catacombs and Simon fucking Snow was awake and waiting for him to do something wrong so he just _fell._

Now he’s curled up on the floor, gasping for air and breathing fire instead. His lungs are burning up, his cheeks are wet, his hands are covering his face, his whole body is shaking.

“Baz… Baz! What are you doing?” There’s some scuffling and a hand is on his wrist, trying to pry him open and see what’s inside. Baz immediately thrashes.

“Fuck off, Snow! I don’t want you here!”

**Liar, liar, pants on fire.** He wonders distantly if that spell will burn him to a crisp. He’s certainly gotten the first part right.

“Baz, calm down–”

“I love you.” The sudden confession is muffled by Baz’s hands, but it sends a shockwave through the room and everything stops. He uncovers his face and barrels on.

“I love you I’m a monster I should die I’m a fucking vampire I love you Simon Snow…” The words repeat and repeat and Baz is being scorched clean of lies. It feels terrifying and so fucking relieving. Simon Snow’s face is a mixture or surprise, disbelief, confusion and some strange emotion.

When he’s done, Simon Snow will report everything to the Mage, and Baz will be pulled apart, but for now, he doesn’t give a fuck.

So he sits up, still teary-eyed, and pulls at Simon Snow’s untameable curls until their lips meet. Closing his eyes, he feels a hand wrap around his waist. They’re kissing.

Everything’s a mess, but he doesn’t give a fuck.


End file.
